


We're All Policemen

by Nope



Category: The Filth - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-04-13
Updated: 2003-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-31 17:56:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10904463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nope/pseuds/Nope
Summary: You're Greg Freely. It's four in the morning.





	We're All Policemen

It's four in the morning.

Man Red says, "Repeat anything often enough and it loses all meaning."

It's four in the morning. Everything's true. Everything's lies. There's no real pattern of course. Nothing to see. All this weird shit. You're imagining this. It's a puzzle with half the pieces missing. You need immediate psychiatric help. They've left out all the straight edges but given you sixteen corners. Take it apart, put it back together; eight billion channels and nothing on any of them. It's fractal, is what it is.

Man Red says, "Repeat anything often enough and it loses all meaning."

You're Greg Freely. You're a para-personality. You come in a jar. Cum in a syringe. You're Greg Freely. You're in your garden. It's four in the morning. You're Greg Freely in your garden with a spade. With a spade and a dead cat. One cat, two cat, dead cat, dead cat. Schrödinger's experiment with a singular outcome. Welcome to Status Q, Greg Freely. It's four in the morning.

Man Red says, "Repeat anything often enough and it loses all meaning."

It's fractal. Contains itself. Over and over again. This is the hand that rocks the cradle. This is the hand that holds the pen. This is hand that jerks the cock. This is the hand that breaches the sphincter. This is the Hand. The Hand gives and takes. The Hand strikes. The Hand signals. The Hand caresses. The Hand invokes. Your hands are holding the shovel. Holding the shovel in the rain. You're Greg Freely. It's four in the morning.

Man Red says, "Repeat anything often enough and it loses all meaning."

You're Greg Freely. It's four in the morning. You have a red mark on your hand between the thumb and the first finger. You're old and fat and balding. You have a comb over and a black tie and a trench coat and a spade and a dead cat. You have a mark on your hand that could be an insect bite or a needle wound. You have a TV that plays porn. You have magazines. The magazines have women. The women have dicks. This is how it works when you're a Greg Freely and it's four in the morning and it's raining and you're in your garden with your spade and your dead cat.

Man Red says, "Repeat anything often enough and it loses all meaning."

Spartacus Hughes says, "Harder, you shit, harder, faster, fuck, oh, fuck, yes, there, do it, do it Ned, fuck, fuck, FUCK--" Spartacus says, "Anyone can be Spartacus Hughes." Spartacus says, "You like that, don't you, bitch? You like my cock in your mouth? Huh? Choke on my fucking dick snot." Spartacus says, "Fuck me, Greg." Spartacus says, "Fuck you, Ned." Spartacus says, "It's four in the morning."

Man Red says, "Repeat anything often enough and it loses all meaning."

It's four in the morning. Is this significant? This is what four in the morning feels like: it's cold, hell, it's fucking freezing, the rain is dripping off your nose, sliding down your neck, wet under your jacket, cold wet, not like the splattering heat in your pants, and you've been up for more than a day and you ache everywhere, bad ache, not like the dull roaring aftermath of bed breaking buggery, and nothing feels real any more, flat like a page, like a cardboard cut-out, and your mind is running by itself while your hands work, running in circles along strange channels. It's four in the morning.

Man Red says, "Repeat anything often enough and it loses all meaning."

You're not Greg Freely of course. Greg Freely is straight. Greg Freely would never put on a blue wig, shove it into ninth gear, go down on a nine inch cock in a single throat wobbling swallow, never lick pearls of his own jizz from the cheek of one, two, three dozen Spartacus Hughes. Greg Freely would never trade off partners with a talking chimp, wear a time-suit in a compressed super-space, never get blasted on anti-wine and smash a animatronic dump-truck through the hyper-walls of meta-reality. But he could if he really wanted to. Because Greg Freely comes out of a tube. Intravenous personality. And anyone can be Greg Freely. Anyone can be Ned Slade.

Man Red says, "Repeat anything often enough and it loses all meaning."

"I am Spartacus," says Spartacus Hughes as you come, his fingers twitching inside you, his Hand on you. "I am Spartacus," says Ned Slade, closing his teeth around a slippery nipple, rubbing fingers against your quivering Adam's apple. "I am Spartacus," says Spartacus Hughes, pushing inside in one long, slow, perfectly controlled stroke, balls deep and twitching, better than you at everything there is. "I am Spartacus," says Greg Freely, rubbing your thumb over the head of your cock while Satan shakes his own ten inch monster on the TV screen. Everyone is Spartacus. Who is Man Red?

Man Red says, "Repeat anything often enough and it loses all meaning."

It's four in the morning. You are Spartacus Hughes, martial arts expert, sex god, anti-person. It's four in the morning. It's dark and raining and you dig. Dig in the mud. The wet, slimy, sticky, squelching, black, mulchy mud. You are Greg Freely, sad lonely tosser with the beginnings of a hangover, rain under your collar and memory splintered into pornographic snapshots and a garden full of dead cats. It's four in the morning. You're Ned Slade, officer of the Hand, supercleansing operations. It's always four in the morning. And you're always here, no matter which you you are. Always here. Burying all your secrets in The Filth. 

Man Red says, "Repeat anything often enough and it gains all meanings."

You are Greg Freely. You are Ned Slade. You are Spartacus Hughes. You are an agent of the Hand. 

But then so is everybody.


End file.
